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Andrea is sitting near the fire. She glances up at the Wendigo and
smiles, faintly. "There's one thing you didn't get quite right."

Touch Deer swallows. He has managed to get fairly 'into' acting
subservient and wimpy around people, and it carries over even in the
company of packmates. He dodges your look and kneels by the fire,
dropping the food he was carrying. "What have I forgotten?"

This young Native American man walks with a sure confidence and grace
common among his people. His midnight-black hair reaches down to his
shoulders, and a buckskin headband keeps his bangs at bay. Handsome in
a rugged, masculine way, his face is bronze skinned, with a short nose
and coffee-colored eyes particular to the people of the American
Southwest.

His clothing consists of a simple loin clout constructed from deer hide,
moccasins that reach to his knees, and a pair of deerskin leggings;
the leggings are fairly well-made and sport some intricate porcupine
quill artisty consisting of blue stripes bordered by white. He also
wears a freshly made deerskin shirt, also decorated with porcupine
quills: white crosses (not the christian variety) on the shoulders and
blue stripes going down the arms, much like the leggings. Each article
of clothing is fringed in a way that is pleasing to the eye.

The parts of his body visible despite the clothing (upper chest,
forearms and hands) are horribly scarred. Hideous patches of pink,
black, and red tissue dot most of these exposed areas, and anyone
would easilly surmise that the rest of his body (except his neck and
face) are equally gruesome. His hands themselves are by far the worst;
a casual observer might think they would be almost useless for fine
manipulations of any kind, as they are nearly skeletal in appearance.

Despite his scarring, his body seems healthy looking; he is muscular but
trim, and sports a robust complextion. He seems aware to an extreme
degree, seeing and sensing disturbances in his immediate and distant
surroundings like a trained scout. From his belt hangs a small,
utilitarian stone knife, and a medium sized pouch, and a war club.
Around his shoulders a large bag hangs, beautifully constructed from
buckskin and moose hide. When he speaks, his voice comes covered in a
thick Native accent.

Carrying:
War Club
Stone knife

Andrea shakes her head and raises one hand. "Your lessoning ends
tonight, my friend, so I take the requirement off of you. But
something most of those born to such submission know is a law of the
Litany: The greatest part of the kill to the highest in station."

Touch Deer relaxes somewhat, sitting down instead of kneeling. "Yes, I
understand..." He seems expectant of more teaching still to come
regarding this Law.

Andrea's lips curve slightly. "Your food, Touch Deer. You did not offer
your food to others."

Touch Deer frowns, ashamed at his mistake. "Yes, I see. I had not
thought of that." He brings about the wild edibles (mostly roots and
tubers) and extends them towards you.

Andrea shakes her head with a smile. "I release you from the lesson,
Touch Deer. And I'm not hungry, in any event. But when you do the
rite, you must feel down to your bones your submission to the other.
Just a reminder."

Touch Deer nods, taking the food back and munching thoughtfully on a fat
tuber. "Thankyou for your teaching and wisdom, Quiet-rhya."

Andrea's smile becomes the slightest bit pained, but she says nothing.
She glances toward the fire, then says, "When you're done, I will show
you the way that I perform the rite when I'm given freedom of form."

Touch Deer nods, quickly finishing up on the tuber. He places the rest
of the food into his bag and tosses into a corner of the
cave. "I would like that...but something seems to trouble you. What is
it?"

Andrea shakes her head, then says with a touch of reluctance, "It's
just...I get used to the younger theurges calling me that. And you're
my student, so such is proper enough. But you're my packmate. I need
no honorific from your lips to know your heart."

Touch Deer smiles. "I used it because you had taught me a lesson, that
is all."

Andrea's face relaxes into a small smile.

Touch Deer says "Would you show me how you perform the Rite...?"

Andrea nods and stands. She smiles faintly. "I'll show you by performing
it on you. It'll be easiest if you shift, youself." With that she
shifts to lupus and pads outside.

You climb up through the tunnel, scrambling through the manzinita brush,
and enter the outside world.

Western Side of Arthur's Island

Lodgepole pines surround you and stretch into the sky above. The ground
here is soft and loamy, and the air remains cool even on the hottest
summer day. Ferns and manzinata brush make walking about a little
difficult, but they add a wonderful fragrance to the air.

East of here, the cliffs that surround the island are at their lowest,
and a convenient rock ramp descends into the water. Southeast, a
granite platform extends over the southern waters of Lake Arthur. Down
under the bushes, several small animals make their homes.

Touch Deer comes scrambling out of a manzinita bush.

Scab-Survivor does as he is told, shifting to lupus and following you
outside.

Whatever once happened to this large timber wolf, it bears the scars in
hideous memory. From the neck down, its body is only whole in patches,
the vast majority of its frame being covered in scar-tissue; the sight
is so gruesome as to almost invoke pity or loathing in the more
sensitive people. It's paws are skeletal and blasted, with pink,
black, and red tissue making its way up and around his grotesque body.
It appears this wolf was once nearly burned to death, but managed
barely to live.

Despite its horrible appearance, it seems able to move and think well
overall. In fact, it retains the vast majority of its strength and
dexterity from before the burning, with only the occasional twinge of
pain from lost skin-flexibility betraying his injuries. Nose
constantly twitching, eyes searching high and low, it does not appear
to intend to miss anything going on around it. It's eyes are a deep
black. A predator born to the wilderness, this creature moves with a
predatory grace, gliding like a ghost through the trees. . .

Currently on this calm and cold winter in the general St. Claire area,
it is 40 degrees Fahrenheit (4.4 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming
from the south at 2.9 mph. The ground is normal. Skies are hazy with a
possible chance of precipitation.

Quiet waits until Touch Deer settles, her eyes on him in her usual
steady way. Then she drops them in a surprising show of humility. Her
tail lowers, curls under her body, and she begins to slink over toward
the Wendigo.

Scab-Survivor sits on his haunches and watches this occur with eyes
that, as always, catch everything.

Quiet whines, the pathetic plea of the omega to the alpha. She glances
up at Touch Deer, then her eyes slide away again. She continues to
crawl toward him, tail beating the ground weakly in mute supplication.

Scab-Survivor makes no reaction other than to 'study' the Rite being
performed.

The strong smell of urine touches the air as Quiet releases her bladder
on the ground, still following the true-wolf way of making up to a
dominant. She crawls a little closer, almost within touching distance.

Scab-Survivor grimaces some, then some more. This display of utter
submission has created an awkward mood for him, and it is evident he
would never have actually expected to see his alpha in this state,
especially directed at /him/. He looks away for a moment, swallows,
and looks back. His eyes have begun to water.

Quiet looks beseechinglyu up at the ahroun and begins to lick his
muzzle.

Scab-Survivor allows this for a moment, then draws back. Quiet,
really...that is good enough.

Quiet allows amusement to show in the tilt of her ears, then she draws
herself up again. There is none so strong that she can not know
humility. Remember that, when rage or anger would keep you from
fulfilling the spirit of this thing. It is not how you do this rite,
but your heart when you do it.

Scab-Survivor will remember this lesson. He paws the ground a little.
That was strange...one never expected you to act that way towards this
one.

Quiet moves to nuzzle the ahroun's ear. It has been long and long again
since I have needed the rite, she says. I have learned how to do
things so I do not offend, except for those offenses where I will not
apologize. But if I had done you wrong, I would act so, and feel no
shame.

Scab-Survivor supposes he understands...one has some good news, by the
way!

Quiet tilts her head questioningly.

Scab-Survivor has been given a 'punishment' by Soulcatcher. One must
spend time with the Spirits and learn of them; their ways and
thoughts. It is so this one will not make his mistake twice. And to
help this one, Soulcatcher has given him a Talen that allows him the
power to speak with the Spirits for one moon!
Scab-Survivor yips happilly at this event, obviously thrilled about the
'punishment.'

Quiet can't be disapproving of such happiness, though she does thrust
her cold nose in his sensitive ear in wry reproval. Try to restrain
your glee. You remind me of the tale of the rabbit.

Scab-Survivor tilts his head. One would hear this tale...

Quiet sits down, tilting her head in that 'remembering' way she has. She
then begins. This story is that of three animals: Rabbit, Bear and
Fox. Bear and Fox were always trying to catch Rabbit, because they
thought he would make a tasty dinner. But Rabbit was always too clever
for them. Until one day they made a trick that caught the trickster.

Scab-Survivor listens with interest, ears twitching in pleasure at
hearing a tale from you.

Quiet will tell you the trick another time. It is a worthy story in
itself, for the Rabbit of this story is like Coyote, full of guile.
But now Rabbit was caught, listening to Fox and Bear talk of how they
would split him and eat him. They had waited long to catch Rabbit, and
each could think of many ways they wished to kill the one that had
annoyed him.

Quiet tilts her ears outward. Then Rabbit had an idea. The next time Fox
spoke of a way to kill him, he agreed! This startled Fox, who peered
at him. Then Rabbit added, But whatever you do, please don't throw me
in that briar patch. Rabbit went on about he was afraid of the
brambles and thorns, until Fox told him to hush.
Quiet continues, So then Bear suggested a way. Rabbit agreed again! And
again he pled not to be thrown in the briar patch. This went on and
on, with Fox and Bear not being able to agree on how to kill Rabbit.

Quiet whurfs, So finally, Fox said, I'll tell you what, Bear. Let's
throw him in the briar patch. He's obviously so afraid of it, and we
can eat him after he bleeds to death. So Bear agreed, and they threw
the howling Rabbit in the briars.

Quiet thumps her tail twice. So Fox and Bear listened for the screams,
but all they heard was laughter. Then Rabbit called from the briars, I
told you not to throw me in the briar patch. That's because this is
were I was born! And Rabbit ran away, laughing. Fox and Bear tried to
get to Rabbit, but the thorns stung them and held them back. So Rabbit
got away to play another trick, and Fox and Bear again went hungry.

Hayes arrives from the eastern side of the island.

Quiet sits near the scarred Wendigo, having just finished a short tale.

Scab-Survivor whuffs. A good story...but how-? He turns to gaze ahead of
himself. Hayes is coming.

Hayes is, indeed. Trademark lazy slouch, hands buried in jacket pockets,
humming something quietly.

Quiet thumps her tail against the ground, softly. Her ears splay also;
in all, a much less ambivalent posture than the last time she saw the
galliard.

Scab-Survivor barks in Hazes direction once he is within hearing
distance of them. Hayes, over here! He thumps his tail a little.

Hayes barks back, amused-sounding through the rough sound of forcing a
homid throat to do a complicated mini-shift pretty much for the
symmetry of it. Hayes over *here*! That's followed by a cough, and a
somewhat scratchy, "Good evening," as he gets within eyesight. "Remind
me not to do that again unless it's really important to."

Scab-Survivor sits back, ears splayed. Good to see you.

Quiet lolls her tongue before gathering her dignity again. She agrees
with the Wendigo, her flared nostrils taking in the galliard's scent.

Quiet stands to lean against Hayes's legs, threading among them in
wolfish greeting. Have you seen Jade yet?

Hayes shakes his head, more serious. "I haven't. You've told her?"

Scab-Survivor layes out on the ground, tongue lolling some.

Quiet has, before the moon began to fade. She said she would speak to
you.

Hayes closes his eyes, and nods. "Is she...around...now?"

Quiet's eyes turn to track the area. Yes, she says, with no hesistation.

Hayes' face is near to going to "calm"-mode, but that gets ruined by the
wry smile. "Then damn the torpedoes."

Quiet looks suddenly wry, her ears twitching. But she agrees, pushing to
her feet. Touch Deer excuses himself to go on patrol with some
reluctance, leaving the tribemates to go into the cave and step
across.

You scramble through the manzinita brush and down into a cave.

Cave on the Island(#2648RAJh)

The entrance to this hole in the ground shows signs of many passings,
the rough edges of the soft rock are worn away. Inside, you find a
comfortably large limestone cave. Stalactites hang from the ceiling,
but are high enough overhead so as not to wound careless foreheads.
The floor of the cave has been smoothed out, and is surprisingly
clean, indicating that the dweller herein has taken pains to make it
so. There's probably room for two or three people to sleep stretched
out. A small fire pit resides near the entrance, and the air currents
fortuitously carry any smoke out of the entrance. A couple of
stalagmites have been hewn off and now act as low tables. Whoever
lives here shows a knack for making things comfortable.(+view)

A well worn passageway leads out to the narrow hidden entrance to the
cave. It's a bit of a scramble to get out.

You start to reach through the umbra.

Quiet's eyes stop on her reflection in the mirror.

The landscape shimmers and you are through.

Quiet gazes into the mirror, and suddenly she vanishes.

Umbra: Lake Arthur

In the center of a vast rippling lake stands an island, an outcropping
of pure, untainted stone. Groves of ancient trees, their foliage an
incredibly deep green, stand sentinel over the raw granite. A single
tower of weathered grey rock juts from the island's southeastern end,
its sides creased and scarred by the elements. A faint shimmering
marks the side of the tower toward the lake, and the sound of
cascading water reaches your ears.

The lake waters surround the island, but Luna has provided a path that
leads east across the crystal liquid.

Hayes appears in a glimmer of light.

The circle-snake is drifting over the island like a fish patrolling a
river, poking her nose and lantern eyes into this nook or that shadow,
sliding and weaving among the spirit-forms of sleeping bushes and
trees and rocks.

Hayes steps through, eyes searching and focusing. His expression is
affected calm, his eyes wistful and almost longing over a deeper layer
of fatalistic resolve. The nervousness that's part of that almost goes
without saying.

Jade slides sideways towards them in an abrupt change of course, but
only hovers nearby, tilting and twisting her head to peer at them with
slow curiosity.

Quiet looks up at the snake, her dog-dark eyes steady. He has come to
speak to you, she says. As I told you he wished to.

Jade moves in closer and takes up that annoying position about ten
inches above and just in front of Hayes' forehead, at the edge of his
peripheral vision, feathers fluttering on no wind in particular.

Hayes starts, "I..." and stops. His body shimmers, flesh and bone
rearranging into lupus, the galliard going for more direct words which
he's less likely to detour in in his usual distancing. I left for a
time. I believed my reasons for doing so were good ones. I still do,
but I know that I acted wrongly on them. I want to make amends. I want
back -in-. I want a pack again.

Jade's cool unblinking eyes continue to stare down at him as she sinks
to hold position over the wolf's head. A question steals into both
your minds like insect-bite you did not feel at first, as she asks
Hayes: What is the pack?

Haze winces at the direct touch of the question, it having been awhile
since the last time it happened. It is Ouroboros.

Quiet, far more accustomed to the uneasy touch of the pack totem, only
shows reaction with a slight quiver of her body. Her look remains
steady, silent.

Jade's tail lashes with impatience, although her expression doesn't
change. The question is pressed a second time, with a subtle nuance:
What is the pack to Hayes?

A ripple goes through the galliard's flesh, an urge to return to a form
where he's experienced in masks of calm, but he suppresses it. Family.
Meaning. Peace. It is...pack.

Jade's pressure in the mind doesn't let up yet, as she pounces on a
thought like a snake striking a mouse. All _right_ packs are thus.
What meaning? What means this one?

Patrick appears in a glimmer of light.

Jade coils figure eights in the air over Hayes' skull like the
personification of a minor headache.

Quiet stands near Jade and Hayes, watching the pair. Patrick's arrival
gets her attention briefly, and she splays her ears in greeting before
returning her attention to Hayes.

Pack> Quiet says more seriously through the link, "Jade is testing
Hayes."

Patrick pops through from the rock promontory and looks around the
Umbral landscape. He raises an eyebrow as he notices Quiet and Hayes
and approaches, his eyebrow going a little higher as he notices Jade.

The nervousness remains, but a flash of anger joins it. It *was* right.
*Now*, it is memories and pain and something else that shows I am
unable to heal.
The serpent's movements slow. What is it? she asks, easing off the
mental pressure on Hayes a little (and her questions are clear enough
to everyone of the pack.) What is the barrier?

Haze speaks...well, not flatly. Directly and pained. I am afraid of
doing more damage. Of making a worse mistake just for my sake.

Jade expresses doubt mixed with patience towards Hayes, remarking
obliquely to his frankness. Mistakes (irrelevent) are made: circles
continue. However: Meaning. The pack. What does our Circle mean?
_This_ must be known in the spirit, or you are not of its spirit. Then
the snake jerks and leaps like a jumping fish and darts over to
Patrick, jaw dropping in something which is not a grin. Her fangs
glisten like stars in the spare moonlight.

Pack> Patrick says "He's afraid of being an ass again. Good, healthy
fear."

Patrick blinks, taken a little aback by Jade's sudden change in focus.
"Uuhh ... evening."

Quiet's tailtip begins to twitch as she watches the spirit closely.

Perhaps the snake is playing a bit of a game, for she dances a little
from side to side as she peers at Patrick. The Doubtful One needs a
moment to resolve Doubts, she explains, uncharacteristically. Is there
a Question? The way she asks it, the meaning also sounds like no-moon,
or questioner.

Patrick grins wryly. "My life seems to be one big question. Where do you
want to start?"

The snake's eyes gleam with a trace of bemusement. Jade has an Answer
for you to question. But for such a gift, she also asks. Her mouth
closes a little, but the fangs are still disconcertingly bared, as she
locks her gaze with Patrick. What do you see?

Patrick peers deeply into the spirit's eyes, focusing past focus to what
lies beyond, in Uktena's realm of secret and metaphor. "I see ... a
person, dark and cloaked, in an alley somewhere. He's bearing several
knives, partly concealed by his cloak. Somewhere behind him is the
hunter, howling in frustration; the person himself is smiling
secretly, chuckling to himself."

Jade doesn't blink but sinks like a tired balloon, hovering close to
Patrick's left hand and still peering up at him. Not enough. Not yet.
Let me help you answer. Her grin widens again, her jaw drops, and her
tongue darts between her teeth in an ominous question, and challenge.

Patrick looks at the spirit's fangs, then at his hand again. "What the
Hell. You only live once," he says, and sticks his hand into the open
mouth, answering the implied challenge and question.

Immediately the snake's mouth snaps shut, trap sprung. Patrick has a few
muzzy moments of clarity before his eyes begin to close, his shoulders
sag, and his knees start to buckle under him.

Jade lazily swings away from Patrick, leaving him to digest her little
venomed gift, and cycles back over to Haze, tilting her head again
with curiosity.

Quiet's body is tight, quivering with repressed emotions. But still she
doesn't lunge for the fallen ragabash, or stir closer to the returning
galliard.

Haze growls uncomfortably. Circle continues despite mistakes. I know. I
fear not being part of the continuing. I hope to be so. I do not doubt
*that*.

Patrick collapses to the ground, ending in what looks like an
uncomfortable crumpled position.

Jade listens (not even twitching a feather at Patrick's inelegant
crumple), but still watches Haze with the attention of one watching
someone Other. She coils around to place head and tail together in her
favorite posture, circling as a disc now and drifting from side to
side. That is more. That is not enough. What do _we_ mean? Why is
Ouroboros? What is Ouroboros? The questions pulse with each complete
circuit, like wingbeats.

Haze cocks his head, slow burn behind his eyes. His throat and part of
his jaw contort to produce a single syllable, ~Mu,~ (and by all
appearances, that little trick hurt like hell). My moon gives me many
words but here I have none. I know it or I do not. I never knew it or
I knew it and have forgotten, perhaps. If I do not, I can learn it or
I can not. Ouroboros was pack to me. I loved them and love them still.
I would die for many things out of duty and honor. Ouroboros I would
have for more, for what lies behind Creeds and Law.

The snake still again, digesting this. Then something changes, and she
darts out, strikes Haze's left ear--with her tail, this time, not
tooth--and then slithers forwards to alight and drape herself across
his shoulders. Her eyes gleam with a lingering thought. It is enough.
But you must keep seeking the answer. I will ask again someday.

Along the tenuous bond of the pack, Haze is there too, although the
sensation is perhaps too subtle to notice immediately.

Haze breathes raggedly, a slight wheeze in the inhale and exhale. I will
search to find the right words.

Quiet finally relaxes enough to move, moving forward to nuzzle Hayes'
furred shoulder with all her old familiarity. She then moves to
Patrick's side and breathes fetid canine breath into his face.
Satisifed that he is still lost in vision, she curls up next to the
ragabash to wait the dawn.

Haze moves to settle by the other side of the comatose Uktena, and eyes
Quiet sardonically. Told you to remind me not to try that again.

Quiet just twitches her ears at her tribemate. Her tone is equally wry.
Didn't expect her to make it easy on you, did you?

The snake moves with Haze, no weight at all--at least physically. She
basks like a lizard, as if umbral twilight were her sun, and doesn't
disturb them further.

Haze's chuff turns to a cough, and he settles for splaying his ears. No.

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